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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041197">The Game Was Not Done</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_and_politics/pseuds/chess_and_politics'>chess_and_politics</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Characters relationships etc added as this goes along, Implied substance abuse, This is an AU, again nothing specific or graphic but like. yknow implied it’s there, felt that should be specified</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:47:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_and_politics/pseuds/chess_and_politics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Budapest, Hungary — November 7, 1956</p>
<p>Moscow, Russian SFSR — January 4, 1983</p>
<p>Buffalo, NY, USA — September 21, 1995</p>
<p>Three dates. One very unlucky chess board. Now, in the modern day, one man finds himself in the midst of those who cannot move on from lives once lived.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Game Was Not Done</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For reference:</p>
<p>“<i>*dialogue in italics encased in asterisks*</i>“ — Hungarian</p>
<p>“<i>dialogue in italics</i>” — Russian</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>Budapest, Hungary</b><br/>
<i>April 29, 1931</i><br/>
“<i>*Pay attention, Florence,*</i>” her father said, smiling gently at her. “<i>*Your knight moves like this, see? It’s a tricky piece, but I know you can get it.*</i>“</p>
<p>She nodded, a look of pure determination in her eyes as she took the piece in her hand and set it in its new place.</p>
<p>He patted her head and ruffled her hair. “<i>*Good girl. You have the makings of a fine chess player.*</i>”</p>
<p>Florence stuck her tongue out at him. “<i>*My hair, daddy, it took forever to comb and you’ve messed it up!*</i>”</p>
<p>Her father laughed softly. “<i>*I’m sorry. Maybe I can make that up to you with your gift.*</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>*Gift? But mamma said we weren’t celebrating until after supper?*</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>*She’ll excuse me for this, I’m sure. It’s nothing big or grand. Just something I want you to have.*</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>*What is it??*</i>” She asked, peering around for this hidden present.</p>
<p>He pushed the board forward, catching her attention. “<i>*This is yours now, Florence. For my future champion.*</i>”</p>
<p>She looked down at the chessboard, eyes wide, then back up at her father. “<i>*But this is yours, daddy, I can’t take this from you.*</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>*It’s yours now. It was a gift to me from my father, and now I pass it on to you. May it be yours for many years, and may your children grow to love it as you do.*</i>”</p>
<p>Florence grinned and grabbed the king from her side of the board. “<i>*It will*</i>” she said, staring down at the ebony piece in her hand. “<i>*I’ll love it forever.*</i>”</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Omsk, Russian SFSR</b><br/>
<i>November 23, 1949</i>
</p>
<p>A small baby boy with thin, dark curls was placed in the arms of his mother. A new older brother toddled over to the bed. His father swept him up in his arms and let him see the newest member of their family.</p>
<p>“<i>Anatoly Matvevich Sergievsky,</i>” the man murmured, eyes focused on the swaddled baby in his wife’s arms.</p>
<p>“<i>Our Tolyenka,</i>” she agreed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “<i>He’ll grow up to great things, just like his father.</i>”</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Budapest, Hungary</b><br/>
<i>November 7, 1956</i>
</p>
<p>No one had been prepared for such a crushing response to their rebellion. News travelled quickly, but not enough for some. Her only hope now was to flee and find refuge in a nation beyond the reach of Soviet forces.</p>
<p>Florence shifted cautiously through drawers, pulling out items without disturbing the rest of the contents. The less of an inclination she gave of her whereabouts, the better her chances were. What she planned to take was minimal. Clothes. Legal documents. The barest of hygienic necessities. Her bag wasn’t exactly large, but there was still some room. She took a step back and looked around, trying to find some small memento to carry with her to her new home. Her eyes scanned the room, but she knew the one item she couldn’t bear to give up.</p>
<p>As she pulled her scarf tight around her neck, she stooped and pulled the wooden box from beneath her bed. She ran a hand over the smooth wood, taking the briefest moment to think of its place win her future. Her descendants deserved something to remember their homeland by.</p>
<p>A door creaked. The house was fairly old, so it wasn’t uncommon. In fact, Florence ignored it entirely. She stood and, pinning the chess set to her chest with her forearm, used both hands to keep the opening of the bag wide enough to slide the box inside. It was, in that moment, when all her plans changed.</p>
<p>A gun was cocked.</p>
<p>Florence whirled around, heart pounding in her chest. Two men, soldiers, towered over her. One had his gun poised at her heart. He shouted something at her, then paused and stared at her as though waiting for a response. Her palms began to sweat. She didn’t speak Russian, and she feared he wouldn’t understand Hungarian. The box still cradled in her arms, she shook her head and responded, “<i>*Civilian. Not with the rebellion. I’m innocent, please—*</i>”</p>
<p>Another harsh order that she assumed was some equivalent of “be quiet” was barked at her. The one with a gun aimed at her lowered it and gestured behind her. The other soldier shoved past her and shook the bag out onto the bed. After it was empty, the meager collection of items inside now piled on her bed, he turned and began shouting at her again.</p>
<p>“<i>*Not with them, I’m not with them!*</i>” She begged. “<i>*Don’t harm me, I don’t have anything to—*</i>”</p>
<p>She was interrupted again by the soldier without a gun. This time, his words were directed at his companion. The man with a gun nodded and adjusted his aim.</p>
<p>Her heart pounded inside her chest. “<i>*No, please, I didn’t—*</i>”</p>
<p>
  <b>BLAM!</b>
</p>
<p>A single gunshot rang out. Florence wavered for a moment, arms clamped around the wooden box. Her knees gave in and she fell, crumpled over the set.</p>
<p>After a minute, one of the men nudged her with his shoe. No response. He raised an eyebrow at the other, who shrugged. The first man pushed her over and carefully picked the box up. He grabbed a piece of clothing from the small pile on the bed and wiped it clean, then opened it. He smiled as he rifled through the pieces.</p>
<p>“<i>A chess set,</i>” he said aloud, smiling at his companion. “<i>My son will love this.</i>.”</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Omsk, Russian SFSR</b><br/>
<i>November 23, 1956</i>
</p>
<p>Despite the freezing temperatures outside, the inside of the Sergievsky home was as lively and warm as ever. The birthday boy in question had been wrestling his brother (and losing quite horridly) when a familiar face appeared in the door. Both boys stopped and hurried over to greet their father, hugging him tightly before he had even slipped his coat off.</p>
<p>“<i>Give your father some room,</i>” their mother scolded. The two boys obeyed and stepped back, eagerly waiting for their father to finish removing the layers of protective winter clothing.</p>
<p>Once he had slipped his boots off, he swept his sons up in a hug. “<i>I’ve missed you two,</i>” he said, squeezing them tightly. “<i>It’s good I made it back for Tolyenka’s birthday, yes? Just in time, I didn’t want your gift to be late.</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>Gift?!!</i>”</p>
<p>His father smiled. “<i>Yes, a very special gift. I thought of you when I saw it.</i>” He opened his bag and pulled the wooden box out, carefully handing it to his son. “<i>You’ll need a proper set to practice with, to be ready to compete.</i>”</p>
<p>Anatoly’s eyes practically gleamed at the statement. “<i>You’ll let me compete?</i>”</p>
<p>He pecked his son’s forehead. “<i>Of course. You have a talent, Tolyenka. A chance to be something great for your country.</i>”</p>
<p>He grinned and opened the box, examining the pieces. “<i>It’s so pretty… I’ve never seen a set like this.</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>I wouldn’t be surprised. I got it while I was away, it’s not a Russian set. A very special set, suited for your special skill.</i>” He smiled and looked up at his wife. “<i>Have you eaten already?</i>”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “<i>We were hoping you would be home in time.</i>”</p>
<p>“<i>Perfect. Go put your gift away, and we’ll celebrate your birthday with a lovely dinner.</i>” He shooed Anatoly away in the direction of the boys’ shared room. Anatoly hurried away and carefully slid the box onto the shelf in their room.</p>
<p>“<i>Perfect,</i>” he whispered.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Boston, MA, USA</b><br/>
<i>August 17, 1971</i>
</p>
<p>In a small hospital, a baby was born to two young parents. The new mother signed the birth certificate, giving her new child a name he would come to reject as he reached adulthood. For this moment, however, they were mother, father, and child, unaware of what the coming years would hold.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Moscow, Russian SFSR</b><br/>
<i>January 4, 1983</i>
</p>
<p>It was a bitter night. But all the better, for who would expect a defector to leave though the below freezing temperatures?</p>
<p>His wife didn’t know. His children didn’t know. It was better that way. His family would care for them, he knew. He’d have just simply vanished, a mystery that would never be solved by them.</p>
<p>It was just too much for him. He was only now starting to climb the ranks towards the championship, still being groomed to be one of the several chess champions at their disposal. A quite literal disposal for any that failed to meet the expectations of the country. He couldn’t take it, he couldn’t handle the pressure of winning just to keep his life.</p>
<p>He swore under his breath, cursing himself for not layering up more. The flashlight in his hand was ice cold, and he desperately hoped the battery wouldn’t freeze. If he could just get to the station, he had heard he could bribe the conductor to let him on. Then it was just a matter of waiting until he was on the border. Cross it, and he was a refugee… he’d be free.</p>
<p>The wind whistled around his head, incessant and nonstop. He kept his head now, eyes constantly scanning for the lights of the station. After what seemed to be an eternity of walking, of endless footprints left in the snow, with a new layer falling from the sky to cover his tracks, he saw the distant lights. A sense of hope coursed through him, and he hurried along.</p>
<p>The station was almost in sight. The faintest blob of the building was visible, and he was giddy at the idea that he could really escape.</p>
<p>He didn’t feel even a second of confusion before he collapsed, falling forward into the snowy path ahead of him. Blood soaked into the snow beneath him, marking the beautiful landscape with the stain of unanticipated failure.</p>
<p>In the morning, a man left his post and shuffled along the winter landscape until he came across the red-soaked splotch. He slit the straps of the bag off of the long-dead man and rifled through it. Not much, but it would fetch him a little extra money. He kicked some snow over the man to finish covering him, then headed back to warm himself up.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Buffalo, NY, USA</b><br/>
<i>March 12, 1992</i>
</p>
<p>Freddy shoved the door open with his body, thankful for the dim lighting of the shop. Way too bright outside. He approached the counter and dropped some small items in front of a tired-looking employee.</p>
<p>“How much can I get for this?” He asked, planting his hand next to the meager pile. “That’s real diamond in th’ ring, by the way.”</p>
<p>The employee picked the ring up and examined it. “...$600,” he said, finally.</p>
<p>“Bullshit,” he snapped. “That’s a good fuckin’ ring, it’s worth a fuck more than that.”</p>
<p>“This isn’t a jewelry store buy back,” he said dryly. “You can get $600 now, or you can wait and maybe get a little more than that.”</p>
<p>Freddy stared him down, eventually giving a frustrated sigh and cracking. “Fuck you, fine. $600 it is. And th’ earrings?”</p>
<p>“I can do fifty.”</p>
<p>“This place is a joke, those are real gold!”</p>
<p>The employee picked them up. “They’re studs. Not much gold there.”</p>
<p>He ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, fine. Any other shitty deals you’re gonna offer for the other stuff?”</p>
<p>“No. We don’t have much interest in a few screws and a paper clip.”</p>
<p>He looked down at the counter and hissed. “Shit. Really thought I had more. You can’t go higher on the ring? That’s a fuckin’ good ring.” A shiver ran through him, and he crossed his arms to try and keep himself warm.</p>
<p>“That’s as high as I’m willing to go.”</p>
<p>Freddy glanced around the small, cramped store. “Fine, just—” he cut off and wandered over to a shelf, crouching down to look at a box he had spotted. He pulled it off and opened the lid, eyes widening as he saw the pieces. “How much is this?”</p>
<p>“I’ll make it a part of the exchange if you’ll shut up and leave.”</p>
<p>He shut the box and stood, wincing at how his legs ached in protest. “Deal. $650 and th’ chess set.”</p>
<p>The employee rolled his eyes and finished the transaction, handing him an envelope and tucking the jewelry away.</p>
<p>Freddy sifted through the cash in the envelope and sighed in relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”</p>
<p>“Leave.”</p>
<p>He hurried out the door, stuffing the envelope into the wooden box. After finally catching the right bus, he rode to his stop and got off, hurrying to his tiny apartment. With a deep sigh, he shut the door behind him. “Finally.”</p>
<p>Stepping past the growing pile of trash he was meaning to take out, he made his way to the table and set the board down. “Now I can get rid of that stupid shit cardboard and plastic one,” he said, satisfied. He opened the box and slipped the envelope into his pocket, then carefully took the pieces out. He set the board up, meticulously placing each piece in its place.</p>
<p>When it was finished, he sat back and smiled ever so faintly.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Buffalo, NY, USA</b><br/>
<i>September 21, 1995</i>
</p>
<p>Freddy stood up from his couch on shaky legs, carefully making his way to the tiny kitchen area of his apartment. He picked a plastic cup out of a random cupboard and pulled a beer from the fridge. He poured it into the cup and carried it over to the table. He relaxed against the seat, taking a nice, slow breath in. “That’s better,” he mumbled, taking a sip from the cup. </p>
<p>He stared out at his apartment blankly, occasionally taking small sips from the cup. One strong shiver made him nearly drop the cup. </p>
<p>He decided a blanket would help warm him up and planned to stand, planting a hand on either side of the board on the table to prop himself up. He certainly tried, and managed to push himself to his feet for a moment. Before he could move away, however, his legs gave in and he fell down, slamming into the table and sending chess pieces flying, as well as tipping his cup over.</p>
<p>“Shit,” he hissed. He lifted his head up and rubbed at his eyes. He wanted… something. Cold, he was cold. What did he want? Sleep, probably. Shit, he was tired. He tried to stand again and slammed back down, his body flat out rejected any attempt to use it. Fine. He’d sleep here.</p>
<p>—————</p>
<p>
  <b>Buffalo, NY, USA</b><br/>
<i>September 22, 1995</i>
</p>
<p>Freddy finally awoke. As he stirred, he felt a strong since of dizziness. Alright, maybe he’d gone a little too hard with everything last night. Over the course of several minutes, he managed to get himself to an upright position. Some water would be good, and something to eat if he had any food.</p>
<p>He stood and saw the drying, sticky mess of beer on the floor. “Great. Fuck.” He reached for the cup and… weird, his vision wasn’t doing him any favors with depth perception at the moment. Reluctantly, he settled on cleaning it later and returned to getting some water.</p>
<p>“You think he is okay?” An unfamiliar voice asked in a heavy European accent. Freddy turned and saw two unfamiliar people in his kitchen. A tall, lanky man in a long coat leaned against his counter, black curls obscuring part of his face. The other, a shorter woman in a long dress, sat on his table. </p>
<p>The woman shrugged. “We can’t really check, it’s not like—“</p>
<p>“How the <i>fuck</i> did you get in here??”</p>
<p>Their heads snapped toward him. They exchanged a shocked look. Finally, the man said, “Question is answered. Not okay.”</p>
<p>“Not okay?” He asked, incredulous. “I’m up and walking, I’m doing fucking great. Who the fuck are you?”</p>
<p>The woman pointed to where Freddy had just been sitting. Confused, he followed with his eyes and froze. His eyes were locked on the sight. After several minutes, the only thing he had said were, “I… oh,”</p>
<p>The woman winced. “Sorry, that maybe wasn’t the best way…”</p>
<p>“Welcome to the first day in the rest of your death,” the other man said.</p>
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